


flectere si nequeo superos

by dirigibleboyking



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 15:21:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4484429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirigibleboyking/pseuds/dirigibleboyking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sam jumps into the Cage, Dean tries to find solace in Castiel. It almost works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	flectere si nequeo superos

When Cas shows, it's sometime between midnight and sunrise. Dean's sprawled over Lisa's couch, both too drunk and nowhere near drunk enough, and he can't seem to move his legs to get up for another bottle.  
He's aware of the little things. The quiet ticking of the clock on the wall. The hard lump of the gun beneath the sofa cushion- he put it there right after moving down from Lisa's bedroom, just after his most recent crack-up. It's moving into summer- the world hasn't got the memo that Sam's dead, that things aren't _allowed _to change- and even at three in the morning, the air feels dense with heat.__  
Dean's starting to doze when he registers the rushing sound of wings. He keeps his eyes shut. He can't handle Cas. Not right now, out of his head and drunk to boot. He's not even seen him since in the Impala, just after Sam-  
After he-  
'Dean.'  
Dean forces his limbs to go loose. He breathes slow and steady, sleep breathing.  
'Dean, I know you're awake.'  
Maybe if Dean doesn't do anything he'll just go away. Maybe Bigfoot is real. Maybe Dean won't have a bitch of a hangover tomorrow (and maybe Detroit never happened).  
'Dean. Open your eyes.'  
The voice comes from inches away from his face. Dean actually feels Cas's breath ghosting over him. He jerks back into the sofa, eyes flicking open. 'Cas.'  
The angel's standing beside the sofa, frowning slightly as he leans over him.'You're grieving.'  
'Screw you,' says Dean, tiredly. He settles back into the sofa, pretending not to have registered how close Cas's face is. How a bar of moonlight hits Cas's eyes and makes them transparent, colour leached from the blue in the silvery light.  
'Why are you here, Cas?' he asks.  
'Is there anything I can do to help?'  
His face; concerned and so close, close enough to touch.  
Dean curls his hands into fists.  
'Nothing at all.'  
But Cas just keeps on sitting there, looking at Dean like that, like he has any what it's _like _, with his hair all fluffed up and his tie on one side, moonlight streaming in from the slats between the blinds and falling in shafts over his face. Like a marble version of himself, beautiful and implacable. Making it clear that he's going nowhere.__  
'What do you want?' says Dean.  
Cas seems to give it some thought. 'I want you to feel happiness. Joy.'  
Dean can't help but bark with laughter. He realises the whiskey bottle is still in his hand, and lets it fall to the floor. 'And I want another bottle, but we don't always get what we want.'  
It's then that Cas moved forward a little and presses his mouth to Dean's. Dean stiffens, then relaxes, letting himself be kissed- and, as it seems Cas is about to pull back, kisses Cas back.  
He's a good kisser, and he knows it. Cas is terrible- he has no idea what to do with his tongue- but somehow it isn't about that. It's about soft sounds in the silence, the scratch of stubble on stubble and the smoothness of skin on skin, about the warmth leaching into Dean when he pulls Cas down by the collar onto the sofa with him.  
You know. Important things.  
Cas's mouth is soft and dry and slightly chapped, and the long line of his throat is limned in silver light. Dean thinks he might be shaking, but he can't help it- this is more sensations than he's felt in weeks, gently making out with an angel on a beat-up sofa, and it feels like stepping off a bridge blindfolded and not knowing whether the drop is three feet or three thousand.  
Cas reaches out, hesitantly, and touches Dean's face, wiping a thumb along his cheekbone. Dean realises he's crying, and then he realises that he doesn't care.  
He pulls Cas in and kisses him again, deep and dark and slow, and although it tastes like whiskey stil, there's the salt of tears, and something else, something angelic, something pure and other that tastes faintly like clean air and lemons.  
For the first time in a long while, things are almost good.


End file.
